Wednesday 26 December 2012

Confidence Tricks

 
The set of people that we judge to be confident is in fact made up of two distinct groups; the truly confident and those that can fake it. For all intents and purposes this doesn’t really matter since outwardly those accomplished members of the second group are indistinguishable from those in the first.

Confidence is contextual. A man too shy to maintain dinner conversation may have no problem calming a charging horse. Of course some irritating individuals might be able to do both. Some supremely gifted individuals might be able to do both at the same time, though this is rare, not least because there are very few dinner parties to which horses are invited.


So though one might be able to stumble through something resembling Kreisler’s Rigaudon in front of sixty people, or perform a group dance to Queen in front of six hundred, this does not guarantee that one has the necessary social equipment to perform stand up comedy alone.


Such an act requires…well there’s no other way to say it… balls.* Quite frankly, those spherical totems of bravery often escape me.

The event was a showcase of wonderful comedic talent of which I was not a part, though it became clear that the evening would fair better if someone introduced each half and somehow I found myself about to be that someone. I don't want to overstate it: The crowd was an invited mix of munificent media types with kindness in their hearts and a modicum of alcohol in their veins. The heckling sort they were not. But even so, I had nothing prepared**, and felt that there would be some expectation that whoever stood at the microphone ought to be funny.


Additionally, it must be remembered that what paucities of charm and vocal dexterity I possess are not universally applied. Anyone whose misfortune it has been to receive a voicemail from me, can attest to this. I gabble, I maunder, I veer wildly off topic.***


As I held the microphone to my mouth, all my sweat glands were convinced I was locked in a sauna with a rabid Doberman. My words of welcome were met with tepid applause of the kind afforded to a runner up at a church fete. At which only half the crowd have hands. Could do better. I bailed and devoted the remaining minutes to a paean for the first act. The professionals took over and the crowd was with them.


My recollection of the second half is hazy, but I distinctly remember contrasting Gangnam Style with Coleridge’s Xanadu. I think they liked it, but to be fair, Coleridge always is an absolute hoot. But I do remember people laughing and that feeling warm and fuzzy.


Somewhere, my first dalliance with stand up comedy is recorded. But I’d rather you didn’t see it. So I leave you with Xanadu instead. The proper one obviously.


* You catch my drift no doubt, though I have never fully understood the idiom. I have two such objects suspended from my person and rarely does either instill me with courage.

** This isn't strictly speaking true. I always have an old joke about onions on stand by, but it is so good I keep it in reserve for the direst of circumstances.
 
***“Well, er, actually, Portugal accounts for almost half of the world’s cork production, so I don’t suppose you are free on Thursday?”

Tuesday 25 September 2012

On A French Beach




We flew into Nice at the end of the season, but not so late as to bump into a Graham Greene character. Staying at a villa in the hills, we’d all pile into the car and roll between Cannes, Antibes, Cap Ferrat and the rest; eating, drinking and generally having a good time.

There came a day when one of our party wanted to swim in the sea, so we took ourselves off down the coast to find a quiet beach. It was a Saturday and our mission was doomed to failure. In the end, we gave up and defaulted to a busy public stretch with a small handiplage at the end of it full of slings and hoists. I wanted to try them, but it was deemed inappropriate.

We found the remaining postage stamp of beach that had not yet been occupied and sandwiched ourselves between an old French couple, a gaggle of girls tanned to a butterscotch brown and four Australians who, with admirable foresight, had brought an icebox of beer along.

The elderly French lady removed her bikini top and her breasts began an intimate conversation with her ankles. Behind me, the Australians were discussing precum. Their broke from this topic when a girl in their number noticed a tattoo on her neighbour’s forearm and asked what the green script meant.
“Oh, it’s in Thai. It means ‘Hot Chicken, Cold Chicken’.”
The girl, not unreasonably I thought, asked why.
“Oh, because sometimes you get chicken and it’s really really hot, but other times it’s really really…”
Cold?
“…cold.”
Right. I padded off down the beach, waded into the sea and struck out for a buoy in the distance.
_______________________________

The word buoy is difficult one. I remember having a conversation with someone who followed the Olympic sailing (can you imagine?) and said that Ainslie—"Harriott?" I gambled wildly—had got into all sorts of trouble for touching one.
“I should bloody well think so,” I replied, incensed, “I’m astounded he was allowed to compete at all.”
“No. A buoy.”
“Well indeed. It’s a disgrace. Prison was it?”
“No, a buoy.”
etc.
_______________________________

We returned home to eat chicken. Hot chicken.

Friday 17 August 2012

A bit of fluff

The politics blog Conversamus has recently introduced a new section with a more creative brief. They are looking for any cultural comments, observations or reviews, so if you think you have an idea then why not get in touch?



I'm looking after a dog at the moment so I wrote about that.

Friday 6 July 2012

His words, his Bond.

I suggest Fleming's most significant Bond novels for CultBox.co.uk.

Read it here.

Monday 7 May 2012

Burger & Lobster, Mayfair


Sky's The Limit

I've been doing bits and bobs for Sky Television. Here are two bits and one bob.




Saturday 11 February 2012